


Howling From The Vaults

by tearupthesky



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: 5 Things, Cliche, Crack, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearupthesky/pseuds/tearupthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron and April rock five clichés.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howling From The Vaults

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annakovsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annakovsky/gifts).



1.

The day the delegates from Pawnee's new sister city are due to arrive, Leslie rents a limo with champagne and the works to go pick them up from the airport, and Tom, Jerry and Donna are all more than happy to pile in. Since Ron thinks champagne is for socialists and April hates, well, meeting people, ever, the two of them elect to hold down the fort and enjoy the peace and quiet. So it's kind of a surprise when ten minutes later, half a dozen men in black suits file into the parks department, looking blank and lost.

"Oh," April says, barely glancing up from her phone. "Are you the guys from the place?"

The men confer among themselves in some language that's not English or Spanish, so whatever. Then one says, "Yes."

They hover in a tight pack next to her desk, and she tries to ignore them, but they're, like, staring. She puts down her phone and watches the doorway for an awkward minute, wishing unprecedentedly for Leslie to come bouncing in, but she's nowhere in sight. April glances at what seems like the lead guy again and sighs. "So did your flight get in early or something? Because our official parks, um, welcome person is at the airport with a limo for you guys right now, so you're just going to have to wait. Um. Outside."

Another guy says, "Do you assist the leader here?"

April peeks out of the corner of her eye through the window of Ron's office. She can see him peering through the blinds. She bites her lip.

"Um," she says, "maybe."

"So," a third dude says, excitedly. "You are also his lover."

April feels her eyes get very wide and dry. "Um," she says, louder than before, then she takes a short breath and yells, "Ron!"

The six men's eyes all dart at once toward Ron's door and they take an eager step away from April's desk. They smile as one when he comes out, and he stares at them for a second, eyebrows knitted together, before he looks at April.

"The new guys are weirder than the last guys," she says.

"Gentlemen," Ron says, mustering up his most robust voice. "If you'll all just take a seat. Outside. My deputy will return shortly, and I assure you she is more than capable of dealing with whatever... this... is." He claps his hands together once and nods, but before he can barricade himself back in his office, the main weirdo steps forward.

"Forgive us," he says. "It seems we have upset your female. Where we come from, the helpmate of a powerful man is expected to see to all of his needs, professional and physical."

Ron blinks. "I," he says. "Yeah. Great. April, can I see you in my office, please?"

April makes a muffled, amused sound from the back of her throat. "Uh, do you need me to see to your physical needs?"

"Get in the damn office," Ron says, shoving the door open, taking a step toward her chair and yanking her inside, locking the door behind them. He shuts all the blinds tight, then peeks through once, and again. "Are you all right?" he asks April tensely.

She's busy bouncing squeamishly on her heels, slapping her hands over her face, then her ears, like she can't decide if seeing or hearing is scarier. "Oh, my God," she stage whispers, whole body shuddering. "Oh, my God, Ron, what the hell?"

"It's okay," Ron says, sitting down and starting to dig through his desk. April knows he's looking for the key to his bottom drawer, where he keeps his second spare gun. "It's just, different cultures, we shouldn't, um. All that crap Leslie says. And, anyway, she'll be back soon, and she'll know how to deal with these pervert foreigners."

"Do you think they think we're doing it right now?" April says, peeking through the blinds. Oh, God, they're still just standing there, exactly where Ron and April left them, that's so creepy. "Do you think if they thought we were doing it, they would leave us alone?"

"This is not a helpful line of questioning, April," Ron says.

April shakes with another all-over shiver, then curls up in a tiny ball on Ron's bench, drawing in on herself protectively. "I know!" she says. "Just, they seem pretty into the whole idea. And Leslie said we're supposed to, like, make them feel at home. And, God, Ron, they just freaked me out so bad, I want them to go away!"

"April," Ron says, all deep and calm. "There's another door. We can just leave."

"Ron!" April screeches under her breath, pulling her legs up and rolling onto her side on the bench, curling up even smaller. "They'll follow us! They'll find out where we live and stare in our windows at night unless we give them what they want right now!"

"All right, all right, shut up," Ron says, his brow furrowing unhappily. "How do we, uh--?"

"OH, MY GOD," April shouts abruptly. "OH, RON. OH, GOD, YOU'RE SO, UM, POWERFUL."

Ron just stares at her for a minute, flushing red all the way down the collar of his polo shirt. April starts kicking the heel of her Converse rhythmically against the arm of the bench, waving her arm at Ron, like, get with the program already. He clears his throat and mutters, "Yeah, that's... good. I -- keep doing, um... yes."

April stops what she's doing and falls limp on her side on the bench, glaring at Ron. "Are you serious?"

"What?" Ron says.

April rolls her eyes. "Uh, nothing, except I've heard you moan louder over a sausage McMuffin. Are we doing this or not?" She sucks in a breath and kicks her heel again, raising her voice. "Come on, Ron! Give it to me!"

Ron swallows and glances around the office, grabbing his football off the shelf behind him. He grips it tight with one hand and slaps his other palm down hard on the leather, making a filthy smacking sound. "Is that what you want, little girl?" he says, projecting this time, voice loud and rumbling. "You think you can take it?"

April smirks and sits up, grabbing the basketball from beside her on the bench. "Oh, yeah," she whimpers throatily, coming over to stand by Ron's desk, bouncing the ball heavily against the top, over and over. "Oh, God, it's so big, Ron, it feels so good!" Ron's eyes widen, flicking down briefly, and April bites her lip, grinning bigger.

He smacks the football again, all heavy, and she wonders if it's stinging his palm, how bad it would sting her ass if he really, just, oh, God. "You like that?" Ron says. "You like taking it from a man, not your little gay boyfriends?"

She narrows her eyes. God, does he really think he can get to her like that? Like she's totally forgotten him and Tammy going at it in this office, blinds open and everything? She arches her back, just to get the sound right, and starts mimicking Tammy's squeaky moans, tossing her dark hair back from her flushed face. "Oh, God, yes, sir. Oh, yeah, _Daddy._ Am I being a good girl?"

Ron reels back in his chair and gasps, "Oh, Jesus, April," clutching the football down in his lap like he's trying to hide something, oh, fuck. The basketball slips out of April's hands and clatters to the floor, and she clutches the edge of Ron's desk, closing her eyes and shouting, "Oh, God, Ron! Oh, Ron, yes!" and they can't even look at each other after, their breath so loud in the closed office.

April straightens her hair with one hand and mumbles, "I'm just, um. Going to see." She tiptoes over to the door and looks out carefully through the blinds, then looks halfway over her shoulder, not quite at Ron. "I think they're gone!" She waves her hand at her side, beckoning him over, until he gets up and threads his fingers through hers. She squeezes tight and pushes the door open slowly.

There's no sign of the guys in black suits, but when April peers around the corner toward the department entrance, she does come face to face with Leslie, Jerry, Donna and Tom, looking pale and horrified, standing in front of two men and three women April's never seen before in her life.

"And this, of course, is Ron Swanson, the head of the parks department," Leslie says, with a robotic sweep of her hand. "And his freshly 21-year-old, I assure you, _perfectly legal_ assistant, April Ludgate. Ron, April, please welcome the distinguished representatives of our new--"

Ron's hand goes clammy against hers, and without a word, April drags him back into his office and slams the door hard.

 

2.

"You're pulling my leg."

"Um, no, I'm not, Grandpa."

"April, come on. I know you're messing with me."

"No, I've been messing with you for like three weeks, waiting for you to figure it out. Except now I'm bored, so I'm telling you straight to your face. That's, like, the opposite of messing with you."

"All right, then, _hypothetically_ , how long exactly have you been able to _read my mind_?"

"Oh, my God, who even does air quotes anymore? You're so lame. Why can't I read someone awesome's mind? Like Paul Wesley or Perd Hapley?"

"Good Lord, woman, what is it with you and Perd Hapley?"

"Um, what is it with you and that dark-haired barista at The Grind? She's, like, younger than me, and she's only being that nice to you to get a good tip. She thinks you're old and gross."

"Can you read her mind too?"

"I don't have to."

"You never answered my question. How long?"

"Well, I didn't, like, write it down in my diary. But remember your hernia surgery?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then, um, since, like. Forever. Before that."

"So, when you said you came back because you had a weird feeling--"

"Seriously, Ron, like, actually think about this for a second. What seems more likely? Telepathic abilities, or me suddenly becoming the most attentive and considerate person in the whole entire office?"

"That's a good point."

"And I wasn't totally lying. It was a weird feeling. Your mind really, like, stretched itself to some places that day."

"What am I thinking about right now?"

"Eggs."

"And now?"

"Naked ladies."

"What about now?"

"Naked ladies with sunny-side up eggs for boobs? Oh, my God, Ron."

"All right, well. Those were all merely educated guesses. Give it a try now."

"You're thinking about bending me over your desk and spanking me for making your life so difficult."

"Get out of my office."

"You're thinking about that, like, forty percent of the time, by the way."

"You're fired."

"Aww, Ron. I love you, too."

 

3.

Ron's just starting to think about getting one more drink for the road and calling it a night when April swoops by him, a shiny pink blur, grabs his hand and hauls him into a dark corner of the Snakehole Lounge.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, giving her fingers a squeeze and then trying to let go, but she holds on, her eyes nervous and darting. "Uh, nice party."

"Yeah," April says, biting her lip, her face pale, eyeliner stark. "I need you to take me home."

Ron frowns and puts his other hand on her arm, steering her around until her back's against the wall and he's standing between her and the crowd, the mood still going strong. It's not even midnight.

"What happened?" he asks. "Did that Jean Ralphio try something with you? I knew that jackass was bad news. Where is he?" He tries to turn around and look but April grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him back so he's flush against her, her face pressed into his shoulder. She shakes her head.

"No, just. You have to take me home, Ron. It has to be you, just, um. Please."

Ron swallows and pats her shoulder a little, light, jerky touches, his stomach starting to twist. He's been trying to keep an eye on her all night, what could he have missed?

"All right," he says, "okay. Do you want me to call your dad? Let him know you're coming?"

April laughs, almost a sob, this desperate sound, the black around her eyes starting to smudge at the corners. "I don't mean -- God, you're so stupid. I mean... take me home with you," and then she's kissing him, wet and sweet, her mouth like sour cherries, her little hand curling around the hard square corner of his jaw, and he pushes her back harder than he would have wanted to, it's such an awful shock.

"Please," she says, "please," sagging into him with relief when he puts his arm around her and walks her outside, into the fresh air and the glare of the streetlights, hoping the real world will wake her up.

"Did you take something?" he says, his voice stony. He thought she was smarter than that. Ron Swanson doesn't employ rudderless hippies.

She shakes her head, sniffling. "It doesn't matter. You won't believe me anyway. So, just, don't think about it. Just, let's go." She tries to slip her arms around his neck, all hands and sad eyes, and Ron holds her back carefully, tilting his head away.

"Try me," he says.

She won't say a word until he puts her in the car, fastening her seatbelt securely, more for his safety than hers, making sure all the doors and windows are shut tight so no one else will hear. He's starting to wonder if she's rigged a hidden camera someplace, if this is all going to end up on one of those you-tubes somewhere. She wrings her hands against the puffy skirt of her pink party dress, staring down.

"It's not my birthday. I mean, it is. But it's been my birthday for like a month and a half. It's like that movie, you know? I keep going to bed and I wake up and it's May thirteenth again and I can't -- it won't stop. I've tried everything else, I tried everyone, so it just -- it has to be you, okay? You have to help me."

Oh, Jesus, oh, God. Ron reaches over hesitantly and brushes his fingertips against the back of April's hand, scared to even touch her that much. "Sweetheart, I'll help you," he says. "I'll get you some help."

She shoves his hand away, crossing her arms over her chest, curling in on herself, looking hopeless. "I'm not crazy," she says. "I just thought -- I mean, acting all slutty never worked with you, like it did with everybody else. You just kept getting all worried about me and you won't do anything, but I know you want to, Ron. I just, I've had a lot of time to pay attention, okay? I know how you watch me and you can't stand anybody else touching me. You punched Ben in the face when you caught him making out with me, and he's, like, your favorite. And you can say that it's just, like -- like a dad, or whatever, but I know it's not. I just thought if I tried to tell you the truth, like, you out of everyone, maybe you would get it, but whatever. God, it doesn't even matter. Next time I'll just try to grab your dick again and see how that goes."

Ron's quiet for a long moment, then he clears his throat. "You made out with Ben?"

April snorts. "Uh, yeah. We did it in his hotel room. He was nice, actually. I kind of thought it might work, but, um. I tried it with Andy, and Mark, and Tom, and, like, all the douchebag frat guys Tom invited, and nothing makes any difference. Once I even called Derek and talked him into coming over and had to, like, beg him to take me back, but I still -- I just keep waking up alone in my stupid bed at home, and I know it's not going to stop until..." She shakes her head and wipes her eyes, rubbing black smears toward her temples. "I just know it's supposed to be you. I just want it to be you."

Ron says nothing, starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot very slowly. April holds her breath until he turns toward his house instead of hers. When they pull into the driveway, she fumbles with her seatbelt, all clumsy with excitement, and he has to rip it clear, lifting her out of the car and carrying her into the house like a bride, her skinny arms around his neck, fingers mussing his hair.

"Little girl," he says, voice gravelly, "if you're screwing with me--"

"You'd want me anyway," she says, totally reasonable, nothing like the way she kisses him, all eager and violent, teeth clashing, tugging at his lip. He breaks the thin straps on her dress, tearing it off, groaning when he sees she's not wearing anything underneath. He puts her down hard on the bed and she spreads her legs easily for him, pulling him in between, muttering about the lacy underwear she bought to wear with this dress, that she bought to wear for Andy, back when she wanted him so badly, how they were scratchy and annoying and she just gave it up after a few weeks or so, how it was easier this way, and, God, it's driving Ron crazy, all those things she said, all those boys. It can't be true but it doesn't matter, it's like she said before, he can't even stand the thought of anyone else putting their hands on her. He asks if Andy touched her this way, while he's shoving his fingers in, if Mark's cock spread her open this wide, this deep, and she sobs, dark tracks on her cheeks, her hair still all sweetly curled, fanned out against his pillow. She clutches him against her, inside her, and cries over and over, "Just you, just you."

He holds her all night along, stupidly afraid to let go, to close his eyes, but she's still there in the morning, tucked all tiny and naked against his side, hair matted and eyes messy. Of course she is. Where else would she be?

He leans over and kisses her forehead softly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. She looks up at him and smiles, and he says, "Happy May fourteenth."

 

4.

The Pioneer Hall Bachelor Auction may have technically been April's idea, but it's not her fault that Leslie can't take a joke. One look around the office at Jerry's marinara-stained sweater vest and Tom's purple velour casual Friday tracksuit apparently did nothing to underline the sarcasm, because two weeks later the bloodbath was actually underway, all over the bandshell at Wamapokestone Park, and April wasn't even sure whether to feel more shame or pride over the level of carnage she had wreaked.

Well, pride, obviously, but the margin was a lot narrower than usual.

Jerry (who wasn't a bachelor and had no business even participating, except for Leslie's whole speech about how this was a totally non-sexual event that in no way advocated prostitution, a disclaimer April had taken it upon herself to add in fine print at the bottom of all the programs) was sold to his wife for a whopping twenty-five dollars, which would have been gross enough even if they hadn't, like, made out afterwards right in front of everyone, all smiley and disgusting. That was four seconds of April's life she'll never be able to bleach away.

Donna dropped $200 on Tom, shrugging and saying it was for a good cause, with a look in her eyes like she was a cartoon wolf and Tom was a plate of lamb chops. April decided she was never going to stay awake for another meeting again. It only led to trauma.

She wouldn't have even shown up except that stupid Andy had been first in line as usual when Leslie called for volunteers, and April felt like it was her duty as an awesome friend to make sure he didn't get bought by, like, Kyle. Or Ann. Or someone else awful. Friends made horrible, torturous sacrifices for each other, right? That was what friends did.

The sewage douchebags skeeved everybody out for, like, five bucks total, then all the ladies in the crowd made a big gross deal about the firemen, which, whatever. Someone might have worked really hard on those fires, did anyone ever think about that?

April had no idea what Leslie threatened Ron with to get him to participate, but he looked as miserable as she felt, standing stonefaced with his hands in his pockets as Shauna Malwae-Tweep and a team of old ladies from the senior center started a cutthroat bidding war over him. Finally Leslie smacked her gavel and called, "Going once!" and a sugary voice drifted up from the back row, offering twice as much as the last highest bid. Onstage Ron cringed, Leslie looked stricken, and April's blood ran cold.

"$800 from Ms. Tammy Swanson," Leslie said. "Of Pawnee's... beloved library department." She looked like she was choking back vomit. "Who wants to give Tammy a run for her money? Perhaps someone whose job is still culturally relevant? Anyone?"

Ron hugged his arms around himself, closed his eyes and started to rock on his heels, shaking his head.

Leslie blinked. "Seriously, no one? This is Ron Swanson we're talking about! Ron Swanson! All right, fine. Your loss, turds. Going twice!"

Being Kyle's twenty-four hour shoeshine bitch suddenly seemed kind of harmless compared to whatever Tammy probably had in mind for Ron.

April jumped to her feet with the gavel in midswing, raised her hand and cleared her throat and said, "Um. One thousand dollars."

Leslie threw her gavel in all the excitement and the first five rows ducked and covered. "Sold! For one thousand dollars to Miss April Ludgate of our very own parks department! And not to Tammy Swanson! Run, Ron! Go!"

They met by the refreshments table, April pretending to play with her phone and Ron scooping the rest of the meat-based snacks into a napkin.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome," she said. "Your first order is to give me a thousand dollars."

Ron smiled. "Least I can do. You, uh. Sure you won't need a little extra, just in case?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder where Andy was taking the stage, unleashing some of the sexy poses he'd been practicing around the shoeshine stand for the last week and a half, aiming his biceps in Ann's direction.

April wrinkled her nose. "Nah," she said. "I did my good deed for the night. Want to just get out of here?"

Ron folded up his collection of bacon-wrapped scallops and tucked them out of sight. "Whatever you say, boss."

 

5.

April's sister didn't wake her up on the morning of the zombie apocalypse either, so their parents are already mostly eaten by the time April makes it downstairs. She kills Natalie with a tacky QVC clown lamp she had begged her mom a million times to throw away, takes the keys to the station wagon, and tries not to think too much about leaving her parents like that, twitching and bleeding on the living room carpet, their guts spread out all over. Her mom was always such a freak about that stupid carpet. She would have thrown a total fit.

It's stupid that the office is the only place she can come up with when she tries to think of somewhere safe. That place is, like, wall to wall doors and windows, and Pioneer Hall was probably ground zero for this outbreak or attack or whatever, anyway. Like, five people bite each other up on the fourth floor on the best of days.

April's never seen this many people on the streets of Pawnee outside of the annual July Barbeque Battle, and everybody looks pretty much the same, shuffling lazily, bellies distended, mouths and shirts stained brownish red. The car doesn't last that long, not with the roads so clogged, but luckily April's fast and good at not being seen. She tries The Bulge, the second and only other place she can think of, but it's kind of, um, on fire.

She stands there in the parking lot for a minute trying to get a handle on things, smelling all the awful smells in the air, dead stuff and burning rubber and plastic and hair. She thinks about how she should have set her house on fire, then at least her mom and dad would be, like, neat little piles of ash, not just lying there, rotting and smelling. Or, oh, God, wherever they might be now.

She's too preoccupied with trying not to cry to notice when the zombie start converging on the parking lot, and then they're just there, reaching for her and gnashing their black gummy teeth. God, she's so stupid, she didn't even bring that stupid clown lamp with her.

On the other hand, that whole thing with Natalie was mostly just a reflex, and actually fighting zombies indefinitely just seems kind of pointless and tiring, so who maybe even cares? She always ends up rooting for the zombies at the movies anyway. That Pacific Playland idea was so obviously retarded, God, what the fuck, Emma Stone.

April's still trying to make up her mind when the zombies' heads totally just start exploding all around her, all, like, spontaneously, like she's doing it with the power of her mind, which would basically be cooler than anything Emma Stone had ever done in her whole life, especially assuming that she's probably dead now. The zombie brains splatter pretty impressively and April squeezes her eyes shut, presses her lips together and holds her breath, so none of it accidentally, like, gets inside her, oh, God, ew. The next thing she knows, inhumanly strong arms are picking her up, and at least she passes out before the first bite comes.

**

She wakes up in a dark, sawdusty room with boards and barbed wire nailed over the windows, slabs of unidentifiable meat hanging from hooks on the ceiling beams, and Ron Swanson sitting on a plain wooden chair, holding a very large gun.

"Didn't this whole thing just start, like, last night?" April asks, peering around again nervously, but, check, she's still in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. "How did you have time to do this?"

"Do what?" Ron says, turning his head to follow her eyes like something might be out of place, and, oh.

Just, oh.

**

He makes her take her clothes off to see if she's been bitten anywhere, inspecting her all impassively, like she's a piece of fruit at the grocery store.

He frowns at a scratch on her shin.

"I scraped my leg on my bike pedal last week," she says, so nervous it comes out like a lie. He doesn't shoot her, though, so, oh, well.

**

She waits three days to ask him about the others. He hasn't said much about anything in the meantime. It's kind of nice, actually, the quiet.

"I only saw Tom," Ron says.

"Oh," says April. "Was he, um. Dead?"

"Not exactly," Ron says. "Not at first."

For a second it feels like she might cry, which is so stupid. God, stupid Tom. "So you, like, shot him?" April asks after a while. "You shot Tom in the head?"

"Yeah, well," Ron says, wiping down his favorite shotgun with a rag. "He had it coming."

**

Ron goes out sometimes on what he calls patrols, when he's mainly in the mood to kill something. He doesn't like to shoot at zombies from behind the reinforced fence around the house. It draws to much attention to their base camp, and besides, Ron says, it's unsporting. April's not supposed to follow him, but, well, whatever, she gets bored, and there's no TV anymore, so what's she supposed to do?

He spends a lot of time stalking around the library, and April wonders if he's hoping to find Tammy alive or dead. She's pretty sure Tammy would be getting shot either way, she just wonders which way would be more satisfying. Alive, probably. She guesses it should probably freak her out, thinking about that, but mostly she just wishes she had an arch nemesis to go hunting for, or, like, a best friend she was desperate to find. At least it would give her something to do. Following Ron is the most excitement she's had in like a week.

Then she, like, kicks a rock or steps on a twig or something, and things get abruptly more exciting.

Ron spins on his heel, gun raised, and April puts her hands up like a cartoon bank robber. She watches Ron take a breath in and lower the gun, start to step forward, muttering the first words of a long familiar lecture, "Goddammit, April," and April doesn't know, just, his voice must carry or something, because all of a sudden the dead are everywhere, howling and pawing for them. April brought her gun, at least, the birthday present Ron's finally gotten around to teaching her to use, and she's holding her own until she realizes she can't see Ron anymore, there's too many of them all over, and then her hand's shaking too badly to aim, shots going wild, wasting her clip. She tries to look for Ron again but sees a hole in the crowd of bodies instead, and she can't think, just ducks through it and runs, winding around buildings and familiar park paths so she can lose the few straggling chasers before she makes it home. She lets herself back in through all the locks and gates, careful and quick and quiet. She wants to leave it all open for Ron, just in case he has to get back in fast, in case he can't lose them all, but he'd kill her so she shoves everything closed again, sealing the place back up tight. Ron's probably there already anyway, just waiting to pick up the lecture where he left off.

**

Ron's not there, and it's dark by the time he makes it back, and April's beside herself, jumping at every sound. She fixes her gun on the door when the locks start rattling, and doesn't move it when Ron comes into view.

"Where have you been?" she hisses.

"Hiding," Ron says, shutting the door behind him. "Hiding like a hippie draft dodger from the zombies that you spooked. Are you happy now?"

"I'm totally ecstatic," April says, still pointing the gun at him. "Did you get bit?"

"No," Ron says, brushing past her to get some water.

"Prove it," April says, making an emphatic punctuative gesture with the gun.

"April," Ron says tiredly.

"I didn't see you," April says. "You were gone for hours. Anything could have happened. How am I supposed to know?" Her voice gets weirdly high-pitched at the end there, but it doesn't make her point any less valid.

"Same goes for you. You're right, anything could have happened," he says, shrugging, getting all reasonable about it, and, well, crap.

They put down their guns and undress slowly, standing across from each other in their makeshift bedroom, what used to be Ron's dining room. The table's reinforcing the windows now. Ron starts to lift his undershirt, then hesitates, the hem slipping out of his fingers, and April sucks in a breath.

"What are you hiding?" she says, her voice low and strengthless. She moves across the room and peels Ron's shirt up, feeling his skin underneath, testing it. He's warm, not fever-hot, but pulsing and alive, and she can't stop touching him, feeling the crackle of his chest hair under her fingers, the bulky muscles in his arms. His skin's not broken anywhere, but she keeps running her hands all over until he takes hold of her wrists, easing them back. "Why didn't you want me to see?" April says, swallowing, confused. Her eyes are blurry, wet-feeling. She wants to put her hands back on Ron. She felt better when they were there.

"I was hiding in a tree," Ron says quietly, rubbing his thumbs against the insides of April's wrists. "And I, uh. Must have pulled something in my back. That was as far as I could lift my arms." He clears his throat. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared," April says, shivering in just her bra and day-of-the-week underpants. Ron's still radiating heat, so April starts leaning into him, letting it seep through her skin. It's just a survival instinct, but Ron pushes her back again, his hands sturdy on her shoulders this time, his face stern.

"Get dressed, April," he says, all gentle and kind of pitying, and, like, fine. See if she makes him any bullshit instant coffee tomorrow morning.

**

April's dreams flip back and forth all night between Ron dying and Ron leaving her to die, and she wakes up in the middle of the night with him crouched over her crappy little bedroll, stroking her hair and murmuring, "I won't, honey, I won't leave you." He sounds so sincere, her immediate instinct is to make fun of him, but her heart's still pounding, her pillow damp with sweat and tears, and it's hard to think of a burn that will really land in that condition.

She pulls him down next to her instead, her fist in the front of his polo shirt. "You should," she whispers, burying her face against his broad chest, getting his shirt all wet and snotty. Take that. "I slow you down. I get you in trouble. You'd make it way longer without me." They're both obviously still going to die, gutted and screaming, but, just, maybe not quite as soon. Although April doesn't even know what the point of dragging it out would be, if she were all alone.

"Come on, I need you," Ron says. He kisses her forehead and she bites her lip. "We went through this when you tried to quit on me before."

April snorts. "That was sort of a different situation."

"How?" Ron says. "The mindless, drooling, citizen hordes are still clamoring to get in. It's still up to us to keep them out. Just let me take point for a little while. Figure I owe you, what? About a year and a half?"

She sniffles, getting comfortable in the crook of Ron's arm. "I'll probably be a pretty good shot by then, huh?"

Ron chuckles, all deep and warm in his chest, settling in beside her. "I'm counting on it," he says, and outside the Pawnee taxpayers moan and whine. Maybe in the long run, not that much has changed after all.


End file.
